Running with Sicssors by Augusten Burroughs is the kind of book you want to eat. You want to rip the pages out and chew them, read the book from your stomach outward.
How often do you read this:
We were young. We were bored. And the old electroshock therapy machine was just under the stairs in a box next to the Hoover. "C'mon you guys, it'll be fun," Vicki said, pulling at the stuffing that was leaking from a hole in the sofa's arm."
What an amazing tale, I'm sure some fiction some non, despite its "memoir" moniker, that is blended and sewn together using rich metaphors and bizzarre events as threads. Burroughs, whoever he is (and who is he?) writes in a way that tickles and abhors simultaneously -- the kind of thing very few writers can achieve. Ever. And he does it page after page.
Quick--someone buy me his next book, which looks ultimately as fascinating and well constructed.
Gotta love a writer who can really write.
Damn.
